by Neil Olson
“There are companies that specialize in the storage and transportation of art. I could even recommend a few. I can’t believe they would leave that to you.”
“I tell you I can arrange it.”
Matthew squeezed his forehead. He needed sleep, needed to think clearly.
“Have you already arranged it? How deeply are you in with these people?”
“There have been discussions. Nothing has been agreed, but they will do as I suggest. I contribute generously to several of their causes, and unlike you, I am not ashamed to apply leverage. Anyway, they prefer to deal with countrymen, you know the Greeks.”
“And you’re doing this for what reason?”
“You don’t believe it’s for the church?” Fotis smiled at him.
“Suspicious boy. Very well, say that it is for myself. There is little in life that would please me more than returning the icon to Greece, and having a few precious days alone with it before that.”
“I see.”
“And you know, there is another person who might benefit.” Fotis eyed him keenly, but Matthew was unwilling to play. “Your father will be released from the hospital shortly.”
“My father?” A cold panic turned the pudding to lead in his stomach.
“Yes.”
“He’s not much for art. Or religion.”
“If you would remember what you have read, you would understand that faith is not always necessary for healing. It is in the general nature of the miraculous. Doubters are critical to any religion. Their resistance defines faith, and it usually says something about their hearts. The truly godless never bother to think about the matter. Your father’s scorn says something different to me from what he intends.”
“I’m sure he’d be very interested to hear that,” Matthew snapped, anger rising at Fotis’ daring to bring his father into this, even as the old man’s words stirred other, more elusive feelings.
“I would not be foolish enough to say it to him, and I trust that you will have the wisdom not to mention any of this. He will come to my home for a visit when he is out of the hospital. The icon will be there. The rest will be in God’s hands.”
“In God’s hands?” Matthew could barely contain himself. Private musings had leaped from his mind, from the old dusty pages in the library to his godfather’s lips. His own scorn died on his tongue, killed by some stronger emotion. Fear? Was it fear lurking beneath the cover of his righteous rage, and what should he be frightened off? “You honestly think that icon will miraculously cure him?”
“I expect nothing. I would not deny him the opportunity to derive some good from it. Why would you?”
“And for that ridiculous reason I’m not supposed to tell Ana Kessler the truth?”
“There is nothing useful you are keeping from her. And there are many reasons why you should allow the matter to take its course. Must we review them again? Do you need more?”
Matthew’s anger reached some critical mass and converted itself into paralyzing self-disgust. A man who knew his mind would do what he had to, would not sit here debating.
“Do you think the girl is telling you everything?” Fotis continued.
“What do you mean?”
“Only that she may have secrets of her own.”
“Like what?”
“I do not claim to know, but it is a strange and secretive family, from what little I understand. She has not hesitated to turn you to her own purposes, make you her personal adviser.”
“I’ve done that willingly.”
“It always feels that way with a woman, yes?”
“I don’t like your insinuations.”
“I withdraw them. You need no self-serving reasons to do what is right.”
“How do either of us know what that is?”
“You will do what is right because you are a good man. You do not require the spur of familial guilt and obligation.”
“Familial guilt,” spat Matthew. “You mean your guilt.”
“Are we not family? But that is not what I meant. The responsibility lies closer still.”
“Please don’t be mysterious, Theio. Say what you’re going to say.”
Fotis’ eyes were suddenly damp, and his face seemed to droop with his mustache.
“I did not want to speak of this. I break a trust by doing so. Do you understand me? To Fithee. The Snake.”
“The one who killed the priest.”
Fotis reached one long, shaking hand across the table and caught Matthew’s sleeve.
“We cannot know that he did kill him. He was doing what he felt was right, remember that.”
“Tell me.”
“Your Papou.” And he withdrew the hand, looked away. Matthew simply stared.
“Papou was the Snake.”
Fotis only nodded, back bent, hat falling over his eyes. Diminished. Matthew allowed any expressions of shock or denial to pass through his mind unspoken. Indeed, the longer he sat there, made mute by the terrible questions in his mouth, the more they tasted like truth. Had he thought about it before now, he might have guessed. Perhaps he had, perhaps that explained his present restraint. Killers grew into kindly old men. He knew his grandfather had an ugly past. His father had told him more than once that the man had done things of which he was now ashamed, things which haunted him. Certainly, there were circumstances that might explain what happened, yet Matthew had the feeling he would never learn what they were. He could fish for answers, but he would have to be careful, have to keep his own secrets from Andreas until he knew more. Even now, all these years later, it was clear that his grandfather was up to something here, something more than visiting his son in the hospital. He was hardly ever at the hotel when Matthew called, would not discuss whom he was seeing or why. Could it be about the icon?
“And if I ask him about this, he’ll confirm it?”
Fotis looked shocked.
“My goodness, child, what could he say to such a thing? He might speak true, he might invent a lie, I don’t know. More than likely, he will say nothing, but I think it would break his heart if he found out that you knew. I pray you will not mention it.”
In the silence that followed, the waiter laid a check on the table. When Fotis did not immediately reach for it, Matthew knew the old man was shaken. He took the check himself, idly folding it several times.
“Damn it, Theio. I wish I didn’t know this.”
Andreas, in the backseat with Matthew, fought the drowsiness that always hit him in an overheated car. The smooth driving of his granddaughter Mary, the scientist in training, did not aid his efforts. He had never known a woman to drive so well. In the passenger seat, Alekos was still and pale, but his eyes blazed with new life as he looked out on the wet spring woods. He had not expected to see this place again, thought Andreas; he is wondering if this is the last time he will see it.
I have missed his whole life, the old man pondered. When Alex was a boy, Andreas had been constantly away on one awful piece of business or another. Serving his country. Errands for some bloody-minded brute, or worse, some arrogant idealist, soon corrupted. Forced retirements when governments changed, the chance to lead a normal life thrown away when he was called back to serve the next fool as he’d served the last. It might take months, but eventually they all understood how much they needed men like him. Irreplaceable men, who knew all the secrets. Why did he go back, once, twice, how many times? Because it was all he knew? He could have learned something else. He could have been a man of business. Why did he allow himself to stay in that terrible game, where nobody won, where keeping the idiots in power was the only goal? On good days, he understood the need; there were real enemies. But then there were all those men broken in body and spirit for harmless beliefs. Men not so different from himself.
Before long Alekos was off to school in America, where he fell in love, and never returned home. Which was just as well, given what Greece became in those years. But the familial bonds were strained, and Maria’s death see
med to snap them. Andreas suspected some loose words from Fotis, either to Alekos or to his hard-hearted niece Irini, Alekos’ wife. There was no other way that his son could have learned certain things, things he would have been better off not knowing. God only knew what Fotis’ goal had been. To drive a wedge between father and son? If he had planned to step in and play surrogate father, that plan had failed. He alienated himself from the boy as well. The evil stories had bred others in Alekos’ mind, until he had come to see plots everywhere. Yet that explanation felt like letting Andreas out of his share in the blame. His absence, his actions, had somehow poisoned his child’s mind, made him turn a cold, scientific eye on life, which he found wanting in every regard.
Or perhaps he was being unfair to both of them. Every father wounded his son, it was almost a duty. A man needed to make his own way, and had not Alekos done that? His cynical, aggrieved manner aside, he had found a wife, made two beautiful children, been successful in his career. The price was the rejection of his old life, his old country, his father. It was fair. It may not have been necessary, but it was fair.
The house, a modest stone structure in this town of great brick mansions, appeared behind a stand of hemlock. Alex refused the wheelchair, and with his son and daughter supporting him, walked up the front steps under his own power. Inside, Irini helped him to his study, where he would rest until he could manage the stairs. Andreas was shown to a chair near a warm radiator, but when the others retreated to the kitchen, he joined them.
“He looks good,” Mary said. “I mean, he looks happy to be home.”
“God willing, we can keep him here,” said Irini, whisking an egg furiously. She alone seemed capable of action. “Babas, do you want some water?”
“Make your soup, I will get it.”
But Mary jumped up, which was just as well, since he did not know where to find the glasses. He’d been in this house only twice before and felt as if he were visiting distant relatives. It intensified his sadness, but he attempted to shut that out and gratefully accepted the glass of water from his granddaughter. Mary still had a girl’s face, but she was twenty-seven and not yet married. Too beautiful, the old man surmised; too many choices.
“Thank you, child.”
“Can I hang up your coat?”
“In a little bit.”
“Mom, I’m putting up the heat, Papou’s cold.”
“Please, I am well,” Andreas protested. Most old men of his country expected this sort of fussing, but he found it humiliating. He could not sit like a pasha, waited upon. He asked for what he needed, or got it himself. Otherwise, he preferred to be invisible.
“See to your father.”
“There’s nothing I can do for him.” The girl looked stricken.
“Here, sit by me.”
He squeezed Mary’s hand and stroked her hair. Matthew gazed at them across the table. Trouble swirled behind that brow. They had not yet had a real talk, though Andreas had been here nearly a week. Besides long stretches at the hospital, they had not seen each other. The boy was busy, but the time must be found. There was no question that his common sense could be trusted; it was more a case of saving him the mental turmoil which the old schemer’s machinations—assuming Aleko was right about that—might cause. A steadying hand was in order.
“Maria.” Irini was pouring the frothy soup into a bowl, then squeezing lemon furiously, filling the kitchen with its sharp odor. “Get a tray table and set it up by your father.”
Mary leaped up again, and both women headed down the hall to the study. The two men were left alone in the suddenly quiet kitchen, and the distance between them was palpable.
“Listen for screams and breaking china,” said Matthew.
“I think your father will take his medicine.”
“That’s right, avgolemono soup cures cancer.”
Andreas nodded. “It’s possible.”
“I’m sorry we haven’t seen each other. This has been a crazier week than I expected.”
“I have kept myself busy, but it would be good to share some time. Alone, not here.”
“Will you stay tonight?”
“If your mother asks.”
“She doesn’t ask because she assumes you will.”
Andreas waved off the subject. “Tell me how your work is going.”
“Hectic.” Matthew put his feet up on a chair. He looked tired.
“I’m clearing rights on some paintings for a new show. And I’ve been out a couple of days, doing research and making house calls.”
“This is about the Greek icon?”
“Much of it, yes.”
“And is the museum going to buy it?”
“To tell the truth,” Matthew answered, pausing for some internal discussion, “that’s looking doubtful.”
“Really? Why should that be?”
“The seller has gotten cold feet. Also, the museum has gotten nervous. Seems the icon may be stolen property.” The boy was staring at him hard. What did he know? Something, of course, but probably not much. “I guess that doesn’t surprise you to hear.”
“You know I grew up in that village, before I went to Athens. I was there during the war.”
“It was taken by the Germans,” Matthew added pointedly.
“That’s right.”
“And someone was killed trying to stop that.”
“How much has Fotis told you?”
The younger man’s prosecutorial style faltered.
“Almost nothing. Just what I’ve said.”
Was it right to finally speak of it? Would there be relief, or just more pain? Could he do it to the boy? Could he do it, again, to himself?
“Truly, what have you been told?”
“Nothing. I want you to tell me. I want to hear it from you.”
There was no noise from the study. It was as if the other three had vanished. The old man looked at the framed pencil sketch on the wall behind the boy, Alekos’ face in profile, done by Matthew at age fourteen. Highly skilled work. He is fumbling in the dark, Andreas thought, he doesn’t really know anything. Someone had let a loose word slip and the boy is pressing the case. I’m not the first he has asked, which means he’s had no satisfaction elsewhere. He thought of the promise he and Fotis had made each other years before. Did he still owe that silence after all that had happened since then? Was there a way to speak to Matthew of this without breaking that bond?
“I am sorry,” he said finally. “It is one of those foolish situations where if you do not know, I cannot tell you. It is a trust between your godfather and myself.”
Voices were suddenly raised in the study. Matthew’s expression grew distracted. Either he was letting the matter go, or he was casting about in his mind for a different approach. Then footsteps in the hall, and both men looked up. A bewildered and defeated-looking Irini stood in the doorway.
“He threw me out. Do you believe that?” Matthew pulled out a chair, but she would not sit, just leaned against her son. “He can’t bear to have me help him.”
“You were probably trying too hard.”
“I just wanted to make sure he actually ate it.”
“What, were you trying to spoon-feed him?”
“He was spilling it all over.”
“You’ve got to let him do things for himself. He doesn’t want to feel like an invalid.”
She sat, shaking her head, palms placed flat on the table, eyes on the large rain-spattered window. Then her gaze shifted to Andreas.
“You’re staying with us tonight?”
He shrugged.
“No?” Her voice was hard. “You’re going to make my daughter drive you into the city in the rain and dark, you selfish old man?”
He was taken aback by her fierceness, even as he recognized the need. This was not the passive, manipulative creature who had married his son thirty years ago. She had grown tough, and he was proud of her for it.
“I would never ask such a thing. I will stay, if you will have me.”
“You are very welcome here,” she answered softly. “You’ve always been welcome.”
Let’s not go into all that, he thought.
“I’m sorry to interrupt your talk,” she continued. Neither man responded. “I don’t know what all of you have been whispering about this week, and I don’t care. But there will be no secret discussions, no arguments, no terrible stories while you’re in this house. I won’t have Alex being upset, or anyone upset around him. Do you both understand me?”
She looked to Andreas first, and he nodded. Matthew followed suit.
“Good. I need your help, boys. Matthew, go sit with your father. Babas, you go put your feet on the sofa, I’ll wake you in half an hour.”
They both moved to comply with her wishes.
She kissed him there in the doorway, for all the world to see, and Matthew found he didn’t care. He could barely remember walking here, had found himself almost unconsciously carried to her doorstep. The impulse had been visceral, intense, go to her, his body knowing what was good for him better than his mind. Ana pulled him in the door and held him for many long, comforting moments.
“Your father’s home?”
“Yes. We brought him home yesterday.”
“Are you OK with that?” She stood back, her knowing gaze upon him once more, reading his doubts. “Is that good?”
“It is.” He seemed to discern the truth of it there on the spot. The hell with more treatment, home and family were what was needed. Care. Hope. Faith. “It’s good.” He smiled at her as if it were her doing. “We’ll see how it goes from here.”
When she did nothing further, he started down the hall toward the kitchen, his mind already seeing the stairs beyond, the small chamber and that other woman who was the third part of this triangle. Ana took his arm and pulled him the other way, toward the stairs going up.
“No, no icon today. Just you and me.”
He let her lead him up the stairs, his legs willing but his muscles clenched, while his heart began to race. Weird fears hounded him once more. He wanted to be up here, with her. He wanted to be down below, with it. She couldn’t really mean to keep him from it. The idea angered him, and the anger shamed him. He strained to control his emotions as Ana stripped her clothes off, slowly, methodically. It was no good. She saw everything, he could tell.
